


Lying Next to Me

by The_Lady_of_Shalott



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Dark John, Fellatio, Hot Sex, M/M, Necrophilia, Oral Sex, PWP, Plot What Plot, Though in a way it's quite cold
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-24
Updated: 2015-03-24
Packaged: 2018-03-19 08:47:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3603855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Lady_of_Shalott/pseuds/The_Lady_of_Shalott
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John fulfills an old desire.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lying Next to Me

Sherlock is already cold by the time that John finds him. He died on the couch, asleep in front of the fire. Heart attack, most likely, due to years of drug abuse. Quick, and clean. And he’s still wearing one of those suits, the crisp white shirt – collar perfect as ever - almost blending into his pale skin.

His lips are parted, chiselled and inviting. And, oh, but it’s been so long for John that he feels a stirring in his cock just looking at this beauty. Better than any carved statue, realer, everything in proportion.

He’s always dreamed of doing it just once.

The couch isn’t big enough for both of them, so he eases Sherlock off it into his arms and carries him towards his bedroom. He’s remarkably light, even in death. A consequence of his continued refusal to eat when he was distracted. It helps now, makes manoeuvring him far easier. It’s almost possible to believe that he’s just sleeping, with his curls light against John’s throat.

Carefully, John lays him out on the bed. It’s a little awkward, rigor mortis having set in, but he manages it, Sherlock’s arms down by his sides. He doesn’t take off his clothes, but he does fish the tube of lube out of the bedside locker. He’s going to need it.

In this new position, John moves and straggles Sherlock’s thin hips, feeling the delicate hipbones through his trousers. He intertwines his fingers with Sherlock’s, jerking his hands over his head, and leans in, nipping at that marble bottom lip.

It’s a shock at first, how cold it is, but it’s not off-putting. If anything, his trousers feel a little tighter afterwards, and he sucks on that lip, running his tongue along its rim, learning its contours, before he thrusts deep into Sherlock’s mouth.

He tastes of mint, toothpaste. He must have brushed his teeth sometime before he dozed off. His tongue is stiff in his mouth, but John probes at it with his own, licking along it, and biting at the tip. He lets one experimental groan into the mouth and it relieves some of the tension in his chest. Eyes closed, he moves away from Sherlock’s mouth, kissing down the length of that neck that he’s watched so many times, it’s fine craftsmanship making his mouth go dry. Now, he salivates as he runs his tongue along the fine line where not long ago a pulse beat, reaching the place where neck meets shoulders, he mouths the crease, biting at the cold skin and sucking. Carefully, he disentangles their fingers, tracing a hand down along Sherlock’s face before opening his jacket button, and moving on to the thin shirt.

Sherlock’s collarbones – so dainty – are a delight under John’s tongue. He explores them as his fingers work on the shirt buttons, hips thrusting against Sherlock’s, though his jeans are still closed. _And the nipples, God_. He rolls his tongue over the small left nub, biting down on it before lavishing it with kisses.

“It’s all right,” he murmurs, to a protest existent only in his mind. “It’s all right.” He runs his hands down along Sherlock’s sides, unbuttoning and sliding down both trousers and underwear, mouth trailing down to belly button, tongue dipping into it. And finally, _finally_ , he unbuttons his own trousers, easing them and his shorts down so that his cock springs free, achingly hard, and not yet. He’s not finished his exploration.

Blindly reaching out, he takes the lube from where he’s left it on the locker and squeezes a little into his hand, working his fingers into it before sliding a solitary finger into Sherlock’s arsehole. It’s tight, so tight, which is natural, of course, though it loosens a little, the muscles heating up, as he moves his finger in and out, and in and out, He presses kisses to Sherlock’s hips, before moving lower, into the thatch of dark pubic hair.

And the smell is _glorious_. Warm and heavy even now, he inhales it, taking it into his chest as deep as it can go so that he tastes the tang in the back of his mouth before ever doing anything more. He adds a second finger to Sherlock’s hole, humping his knee as he kisses along the length of that fine cock that’s been inside him so many times. He flicks the glans with his tongue, lapping at the slit – so clean - and biting and sucking, taking that cock into his mouth and deep throating it though of course there’s no response. He lets it slip out, biting down hard just before it leaves, and the tissue is still delightfully spongy.

Enough. He sits up, pulls Sherlock’s trousers off, and spreads his legs wide. Being generous with the lube, he slicks his cock, and, with past experience to guide him as he lifts Sherlock’s hips for better access, spreads his arse cheeks and eases his cock into the puckered, loosened hole.

It’s _marvellous_. He returns his mouth to Sherlock, thrusting tongue and cock deeper and deeper into him than ever he would have in life, biting and biting so that he tastes blood, faint now, and moves his mouth down along that perfect neck again, biting all the time, fingers digging into hips.

“ _Christ, Sherlock_.” His voice is a choked gasp, the heat building and building in his balls all the time, getting tighter and tighter. He thrusts faster, bites harder and it’s all coming apart at the seams, Sherlock cold in his arms, warming where their skin stays in contact, John burying himself in him as surely as he’ll soon be buried in the ground and then, then –

John spurts deep into Sherlock, cock throbbing and spurting over and over, the immense relief leaving him limp. He collapses onto the corpse under him, kisses gentler now, softer, apologetic even as he smiles to himself.

“I love you,” he murmurs. “I love you.”

And, boy, he’s had sex with Sherlock Holmes, but it’s never been like this.


End file.
